Faithful
by Lailariel
Summary: An alternate history of the downfall of Numenor. Basically, the Alkalabeth meets Henry VIII meets The Scarlet Pimpernel, with chases, escapes, fighting, fencing, and true love thrown in for good measure. Enjoy!
1. Prologue

Númenor has been called "The Land of Kings." For over two thousand years there dwelt on this island the most powerful of all the Edain, the second children of Ilúvatar. Here they rose to unimaginable heights, ruling an empire that stretched from the harbors of Mithlond to the deserts of the Southrons and beyond. Here was their Golden Age. But the land of Númenor is no more, and it is all due to the infinite folly of one man.

Ar-Pharazôn, the final king of Númenor, was never meant to ascend the ancient throne. He came to the throne by force; seducing and coercing his cousin, Miriel, the rightful heir, to marry him and so make him king. It was an act forbidden by law and ancient custom, but the shadow of avarice had long ago begun to descend upon Númenor. Not long after he achieved his heart's dearest wish, Ar-Pharazôn departed Númenor to challenge Sauron the Great at his fortress in Umbar. The servant of Morgoth was wise and cunning, and at that time could still take on the fair shape of Men. He saw in the king's action the chance he had long awaited - the chance to wreak havoc upon the great kingdoms of the second Children of Illuvatar. Pretending to be vanquished, he humbled himself before his conqueror and submitted himself to captivity.

Pride goeth before a fall, they say. Having his pride so flattered, Ar-Pharazôn took Sauron, who at that time called himself Annatar, back to Númenor as a prisoner. When Queen Miriel heard of her husband's actions she fell into despair, and lost what little hope of Númenor's redemption she had clung to. To escape the horrors she knew would occur she attempted to take her life and that of her infant daughter. The young princess was saved from a premature death by the swift action of her nursery maid, but the queen plummeted from her balcony to an untimely death.

While Ar-Pharazôn's ambitions knew no boundaries, his treasury did. His new queen, Alanis, was from one of the wealthiest families in Númenor, but she was delicate of health and did not survive the rigors of childbirth. Queen Yávien died of mysterious causes, and her beautiful (and wealthy) handmaiden Eärenya received the tiara. She, too, soon found a home in the royal graveyard, along with Ar-Pharazôn's final queen, Lyrikindë, who was publicly executed-for treason.

All the while the shadow upon Númenor continued to grow under the wing of Sauron until the lines between good and evil were blurred beyond comprehension. The few who remained faithful to the Valar, the powers who had given them the very land they stood upon, were forced underground, and fewer still managed to keep their honor and families intact, as everything that was once plentiful in Númenor faded away.

Númenor has been called "The Land of Kings." For over two thousand years there dwelt on this island the most powerful of all the Edain, the second children of Ilúvatar. Here they rose to unimaginable heights, ruling an empire that stretched from the harbors of Mithlond to the deserts of the Southrons and beyond. Here was their Golden Age. But the land of Númenor is no more, and it is all due to the infinite folly of one man.

Ar-Pharazôn, the final king of Númenor, was never meant to ascend the ancient throne. He came to the throne by force; seducing and coercing his cousin, Miriel, the rightful heir, to marry him and so make him king. It was an act forbidden by law and ancient custom, but the shadow of avarice had long ago begun to descend upon Númenor. Not long after he achieved his heart's dearest wish, Ar-Pharazôn departed Númenor to challenge Sauron the Great at his fortress in Umbar. The servant of Morgoth was wise and cunning, and at that time could still take on the fair shape of Men. He saw in the king's action the chance he had long awaited - the chance to wreak havoc upon the great kingdoms of the second Children of Illuvatar. Pretending to be vanquished, he humbled himself before his conqueror and submitted himself to captivity.

Pride goeth before a fall, they say. Having his pride so flattered, Ar-Pharazôn took Sauron, who at that time called himself Annatar, back to Númenor as a prisoner. When Queen Miriel heard of her husband's actions she fell into despair, and lost what little hope of Númenor's redemption she had clung to. To escape the horrors she knew would occur she attempted to take her life and that of her infant daughter. The young princess was saved from a premature death by the swift action of her nursery maid, but the queen plummeted from her balcony to an untimely death.

While Ar-Pharazôn's ambitions knew no boundaries, his treasury did. His new queen, Alanis, was from one of the wealthiest families in Númenor, but she was delicate of health and did not survive the rigors of childbirth. Queen Yávien died of mysterious causes, and her beautiful (and wealthy) handmaiden Eärenya received the tiara. She, too, soon found a home in the royal graveyard, along with Ar-Pharazôn's final queen, Lyrikindë, who was publicly executed-for treason.

All the while the shadow upon Númenor continued to grow under the wing of Sauron until the lines between good and evil were blurred beyond comprehension. The few who remained faithful to the Valar, the powers who had given them the very land they stood upon, were forced underground, and fewer still managed to keep their honor and families intact, as everything that was once plentiful in Númenor faded away.


	2. Chapter 1

Count Anoré was one of the wealthiest merchants in Númenor, the masters of a commercial fleet known the world over, and he had all the comforts of life to prove it. His home was massive and ornate, his ships were solid and swift, and his clothing was luxurious and tasteful. With him in his opulent home dwelt his only daughter, her husband, and their child, Ascarien. They were a happy family, as far as anyone could tell, and they made a lovely portrait of serenity as they sat before the fire of an evening. The harsh late autumnal wind billowed and buffeted the house, but within all was safe and warm.

It was wearing late into the night when Count Anoré stirred from his great chair and peered up at the night sky though the windows. The night was dark and clouded, yet still one could tell the night was no longer young. "Shouldn't Cari long be in bed?" he asked. His granddaughter looked up at him from her stool near his feet with a pouting expression on her face.

"Oh, Grandfather, do I have to?" she begged, knowing very well that he could never deny her anything she asked of him. But when her mother spoke up and agreed with him, Cari knew that she had no chance of escaping the inevitable bedtime. She rose and gave a long, heavy sigh that spoke of unbearable suffering and fussed impatiently with her dress, but to no avail - Grandfather showed no sign of contradicting her mother. She turned and walked with heavy steps to the door, but when she opened it the girl let out a ear-splitting shriek. There, in the frame of the doorway, stood two tall figures swathed in dark hooded capes.

"Who are you?" Count Anoré managed to ask after a long moment of tense silence. "What are you doing in my home?" Without waiting for further invitation the two figures entered the room, tossing back their hoods as soon as they came into the light. The Anoré family gasped in shock. The taller of the two figures was a man with long, dark hair, and the second was a woman with braided black tresses. Under their dark capes, which by the light of the fire proved to be a blue dark as the night itself, they were wearing clothes of a shimmering gray fabric that rippled like water. They were so ethereally beautiful, seeming to glow without the aid of the firelight, that the Anore's hardly needed to see their obviously pointed ears to know that they were Elves.

"Elves in Númenor!" the count's daughter breathed in awe. Indeed, such a thing had not been heard of in centuries. Rumors, yes, of course…

"We've come to help you," said the male elf.

"We do not have much time," the woman added, her voice musical even as her eyes darted about the room hurriedly. "They will be here any moment."

"Who will be here?" asked the count.

"Who do you think?" asked the man. His companion moved towards the window and peered out it with eyes that saw far more than any mere human's would. Cari, fascinated by this beautiful lady, followed her, as the rest of the family vanished from the room to gather their things. Clearly, the man's rhetorical question had been sufficient an explanation for them.

"What is wrong?" she asked, tugging at the lady's skirt. The elf-woman looked down at the little girl with a sad smile.

"_Intalye Eldarin?" _she asked. "Do you know Elvish?" When Cari nodded eagerly the woman sighed. "Alas that should be your crime," she murmured almost to herself. Suddenly she looked up and gazed into the trees far beyond the fields. "Orodreth," she called over her shoulder. The man turned from the desk he was shuffling through and looked at her, and something passed between them Cari couldn't see. When she tried to describe it later she could only express it as they spoke with their eyes, for Orodreth nodded in reply just as if the woman had spoken aloud.

"Hurry, Anoré, there is no time!" he called as the adults re-entered the room.

"Where are you taking us?" asked the count. The three adults were now dressed in much simpler, dark clothing, and Anore's daughter rushed over to her own child and threw a dark cloak over her dainty dress.

"The one place where you will be safe," was Orodreth reply. Understanding dawned in the eyes of Count Anoré, and he smiled.

"Andunië?" he asked simply, and when Orodreth nodded it was as if twenty years of care fell away from the Count's eyes. It was a backwater place, Andunië was, full of fens and fields. Of late it had become a land riddled with rumors, and those who cared to listen heard tales of hope hidden in barren wastes. It seemed the rumors were true.

Without any further words the count and his family were ushered out the door. They had not been gone but a moment when the same door was brutally broken open and into the room poured several armed soldiers. They seemed to be looking for something, but were doing so in such a violent, destructive way that it was more likely they would obliterate whatever they were searching for before they found it. Chairs were smashed against the walls, tables were overturned, books were flung hither and yon. Finally a tall man in dark, somber black clothing and cape entered the room and ordered them to halt in a harsh, menacing voice. The man looked over the scene with a hard gaze, his piercing eyes missing nothing. He moved to the window where the Elvish woman had stood not moments before and looked into the tree cover just in time to see shadowed, ghostly figures fading into the trees he and his men had come from moments before. His face twisted in rage and took his frustration out on the window frame. The soldiers in black and red cringed at the string of abuse that poured from their captain's mouth and a few stepped back in wariness as he whirled to face them. However, any forthcoming rebuke was cut short by the fluttering of a small paper, released from the window pane where it had been wedged by the man's abrupt movements. The dark figure caught it between gloved fingers and held it to the light, then crumpled it in his hand and discarded it with far more force than necessary before stalking out of the room. The framing rattled in rebellion as the doors were slammed shut behind him.

As soon as he was out of the room one of the soldiers scurried over to see what was on the paper, and when he unfurled it his face turned as white as the moon now beginning to peek out from behind the sheathing clouds. He showed it to his companion, who swallowed nervously. There was naught on the paper but a scribbling of two trees, their branches entwined. Their superior was not going to be pleased with them at all.


	3. Chapter 2

The clash of swords reverberated against the stone walls of the courtyard. In one of the many gardens of Armenelos, the great palace in the very heart of Númenor, two young men were sparring in the fast-fading light of late afternoon. Both were tall and athletic in physique, and though their outfits of tunics, high boots, and loose shirts were simple in cut, the fabrics and embroidery betrayed the young men's wealth and rank. They even had the same shade of brown hair, though one had brown eyes and the other a dark blue color with the barest flecks of green. The taller of these men was named Elatan, the other was Elendil. They both laughed in enjoyment as one successfully attempted a very showy move.

"You'll never win, Elendil" Elatan declared loudly, retreating a few steps to get out of Elendil's reach. Elendil smiled, his brown eyes flashing mischievously.

"Oh, really?" he asked. "And why is that?"

"Because you always do," Elatan replied. "Surely fate will favor me this time."

"Remember that next time," said Elendil, as he swiftly closed the distance between himself and Elatan and with a deft flick of his wrist so firmly beat his friend's blade close to the hilt that Elatan momentarily lost his grip and Elendil caught it. He stepped back, saluting his friend with his own blade. "Because you've lost again."

Elatan sighed and rolled his eyes dramatically. Just then an woman entered the courtyard, her nose buried in a book. He looked up eagerly and called to her. "Brînyélë!"

The woman didn't even look up, and thus missed the way Elendil's expressive eyes lit up upon seeing her. "Yes, Elatan?", she asked as she turned the page of her book and continued reading.

"Elendil took my sword."

"Again?" Brînyélë asked, finally looking up from her pages. She closed the book but held her place with one finger, looking at the two men before her with an amused expression.

"Yes, again," said Elatan, who was not at all amused. "Now tell him to give it back."

"Now why in Middle-earth would he listen to me?" she asked.

"Because you're a princess and he's only a humble count," Elatan said matter-of-factly. For Brînyélë was indeed a princess, the daughter of King Ar-Pharazôn's fourth wife, Yávien. Elendil stepped forward, wagging Elatan's sword like a finger.

"Ah! Get the title right," he demanded. "_You're_ the count. I am the…." His voice trailed off expectantly.

"Fine, _LORD_ Elendil," Elatan conceded. Elendil bowed dramatically, and Brînyélë giggled appreciatively. "Besides," Elatan continued, "he always listens to you anyways."

"Did _you_ ask?" Brînyélë pointed out.

"Why would that make any difference?"

Just then a distant voice called out Brînyélë's name, and when she answered it a beautiful woman dressed in a gown of blue and silver appeared above on a balcony. Her dark, curly tresses hung freely down her back, and her face was as pale as the new fallen snow. Her eyes were a radiant sky blue, but seemed distant and gentle, as if she was looking upon the world from a far away distance. Only occasionally did they sparkle with carefully suppressed fire, such as they did now. This was Brînyélë's second oldest half-sister, Telperiën. "There you are," she addressed Brînyélë, leaning against the railing. "What are you doing?"

"Watching your champion make a fool of himself," Brînyélë answered airily. Telperiën placed her elbow on the rail's edge and rested her chin in her hand.

"Again?" she sighed. "Really, Elatan, you know how my reputation suffers already."

"There, you see?" Elendil cried. "You've insulted a princess with your failure. How shall we punish you this time?"

"By giving me my sword back?" Elatan asked hopefully.

"No," Elendil replied promptly, pretending to look thoughtful. "Not yet. Any suggestions, Brin?" he asked. Brin, in her turn, pretended to look thoughtful, but whatever answer she had come with she was forced to leave unsaid, for just then another voice broke into their playful conversation.

"It mystifies me how the two of you- princesses of Númenor- can demean yourselves so with mere lords of _Romenna_," it said. The three in the courtyard turned to see in the doorway another young woman standing some distance behind them. The door she came through is still open, for she did not think it necessary to close it. She is quite obviously some years younger than Telperiën and Brînyélë, but she attempted to look older by wearing rather outlandish clothing of black, orange, and red. Her voice matches her expression, hard and sarcastic. Elendil and Elatan immediately became silent in her presence, while Brînyélë and Telperiën looked at their younger half-sister with disgust.

"It mystifies me, Elestirnë, why I don't ram this book down your throat for being so rude," Brînyélë said, brandishing her book.

"Oh, you wouldn't dare," Elestirnë replied airily, playing with a lock of her black hair.

"Wouldn't I?"

"Brînyélë," Telperiën began cautiously.

"The only redeeming quality of Romenna is that they are faithful to the king," Elestirnë continued, ignoring her sister on the balcony. "Other than that…." she went off into a forced gale of laughter that she thought coquettish.

"I'm sure they aren't faithful to the king because of you, Tirnë," Brin said firmly. Elestirnë looked sharply at her sister, and acknowledged the insult with a haughty sniff before stalking past them all and exiting the courtyard by another door. There was a pause as soon as the courtyard was free of her presence once more, and it was Brînyélë who finally broke the silence.

"You know, Elien, it really is a mystery that she's even related to us," she said to Telperiën.

"She's only our half-sister," Telperiën pointed out.

"I know," Brin replied. "But so are you my half-sister, and you don't annoy me half as much as she does."

"Should I be flattered or insulted by that?" asked Telperiën, but Brînyélë paid her no mind. She turned instead to Elendil and Elatan.

"I'm so sorry," she said.

"You don't have to apologize, Brin," Elendil replied with a wane smile. "She's only expressing what the rest of Númenor thinks."

"Well, then I apologize for them, too."

With the swiftness of a ship at full sail, two more young women burst into the courtyard through the door Elestirnë had just exited. They were obviously twins, for besides the difference in their clothing it was impossible to tell them apart, for they had the same red curly hair and blue eyes. One was slightly taller than the other, but that seemed to be the only evident physical difference. They surrounded Brin without even seeming to notice anyone else and began chattering loudly over each other.

"What is it, girls?" Brînyélë asked, trying to calm them down.

"You'll never guess what we just heard," the taller of the two, Hérinkëllen, said. The other girl, Víressë, noticed the two men standing slightly behind Brin and quickly curtsied shyly. Her sister noticed the movement and looked around Brin to Elendil and Elatan, smiling widely at them as she recognized them. She waved quickly at them and laughed merrily before returning her attention to Brin.

"No, I probably won't," Brînyélë was saying.

"What's the news this time, girls?" Telperiën asked from the balcony. The twins looked up and waved.

"Hi, Elien!", said Hérinkëllen.

"Erin, the news," Víri said firmly, attempting to retrieve her sister's ever-wandering attention.

"Oh, right," replied Hérinkëllen, coming back to the conversation with a self-deprecating laugh. "Well, Víri and I were walking to the library when we happened…"

"Just happened?" Brînyélë asked with a knowing smile.

"Of course!" Erin said with a sniff. Behind her Víri smiled surreptitiously. "We just happened to hear Ata talking to Ilnurwe. You know, I still don't understand what Ata sees in that man. I get the chills just looking at him."

"Yes, I think we all do," Brînyélë said blandly. "But the news, Víri?"

"Count Anoré and his family have vanished," Víri said quietly. Brînyélë and Telperiën started in shock. They did not notice the significant glances Elendil and Elatan exchanged before quietly slipping out of the courtyard.

"Vanished?" Brînyélë echoed.

"Isn't it exciting?" asked Erin.

"I'm not sure 'exciting' is the right word," Telperiën replied, smiling wanly. The twins looked up at their half-sister with a confused expression.

"Why not?" asked Víri.

Silmariën, Brînyélë's next oldest half-sister, rushed into the courtyard. "Girls, girls! Your squealing can be heard all over Númenor!" she chastened. "Aren't you going to dress for dinner at some point?"

"Oh, yes!" cried Erin. "Come on, Víri, or we'll be late!" She grabbed her twin's hand and was off at a run, poor Víri trailing behind. Above them Telperiën also vanished into the castle, leaving Brînyélë and Silmariën alone.

"You know, someday we're going to have to tell them," Brînyélë mused, watching the twins leave.

"Tell them what?" asked Silmariën wearily. "That our father is a usurper, the kingdom is in tatters, and the minion of Morgoth rules from behind the protection of the crown?"

"Shh!" Brin said hastily, her gaze darting around the courtyard.

"There's no one to hear," Silmariën told her. "The guards care nothing for the daughters of lesser queens."

"Ah, so they're shadowing poor Lindisse again?" Brin said.

"With the way they keep her a prisoner, can you wonder she wishes us all to pretend we are ignorant of Númenor's condition?"

"I agree with her, but only up to a point," Brin said firmly. "Look at Elestirnë - she cares for nothing but her parties and her suitors. And Vánimelde follows as she always does."

"I think you underestimate Vani."

"Where is she anyways?"

"Getting dressed for dinner, as we should be doing," Silmariën pointed out. Brînyélë laughed and linked her arm in Silmariën's.

"After you, sister dear."

Vánimelde emerged from her room and walked down the hall towards the staircase, playing idly with the fringe of her gown. It was white and rather plain. She smiled to herself to think of what Elestirnë would say at seeing her so simply dressed, but tonight she was too tired to care. It was so wearying sometimes to have to play the innocent all day. Hearing voices, she paused on the carpeted landing, then instinctively hid herself behind the curtains. Moments later Elendil and Elatan appeared at the foot of the staircase, talking in undertones.

"I thought the rescue of Anoré was set for tomorrow night?" Elendil was saying.

"It was," replied Elatan, his voice full of concern. "Was it Ilnurwe, do you think?"

"I wouldn't be surprised," said Elendil, rubbing his forehead. "The man is getting to be a thorn in my side…."

Both men looked sharply up as a noise from the hall caught there attention. They looked at each other meaningfully and moved off without saying another word. When they were safely out of sight Vánimelde emerged from behind her curtain, a thoughtful expression upon her face.

Vánimelde hurried into the dinning hall and took her place at the foot of the table. At the board's head was Ar-Pharazôn, presiding over table in hall his pungent, opulent splendor. At his right sat his eldest daughter Lindisse, looking like a statue of inscrutability, and next to her sat her betrothed, Annatar, the son and heir of a wealthy shipbuilder. The rest of Ar-Pharazôn's daughters, for he had never been blessed with sons, sat in their places, chatting busily as they were served.

"Count Anoré is a mere trifle," Annatar said loudly over the general din to his future father-in-law. "His debts far outweigh his worth."

"Precisely," agreed Ar-Pharazôn, eying his dinner with a discerning gaze.

"Then why was he to be deported, Ata?" asked Víressë.

"He was a traitor, dear," Lindisse cut in quickly, her voice carrying a finality even Elestirnë knew to obey. "He's nothing you need concern yourself with."

"We seem to have an increasing number of traitors these days, Ata," Telperiën observed candidly.

"Exactly why we must take so many measures to eliminate them, milady," answered a low voice. The royal family looked up to see a man clothed in a suit of black standing in the doorway. Ar-Pharazôn greeted him warmly.

"Ah, Ilnurwe! How good of you to accept my invitation," he said. "Please do sit."

"Thank you, sire," Ilnurwe replied, bowing respectfully and taking a seat next to Brînyélë. Brin looked at the man uneasily and moved her chair closer to Telperiën's. Ilnurwe observed her action and smiled rather sardonically. From across the table, Silmariën eyed the newcomer menacingly. Ilnurwe was a dangerous man to trifle with, but there were limits to how far he could go. He just hadn't discovered those limits yet and assumed everything was his for the taking - including Brînyélë. Ar-Pharazôn, though, was either ignorant or unconcerned, for he said absolutely nothing regarding his daughter's actions and instead continued his earlier conversation.

"We were just discussing Anoré, Ilnurwe."

"Ah, Anoré," said Ilnurwe, nodding. "It is lucky he disappeared when he did. We have proof that he was one of those accursed Faithful."

"The who?" asked Vánimelde in a high, childish voice.

"Traitors, Vani," Lindisse answered. "They are those who have turned their backs on their king in order to follow the prattle of the Elves and their Valar."

"And most irksome ones," Elestirnë added. "They are all anyone wants to talk about at parties and it is so wearisome."

"Yet another reason to obliterate them, my princess," Ilnurwe said. Elestirnë smiled, clearly flattered and satisfied.

"It will soon matter little at all," Ar-Pharazôn stated with a wave of his hand, "for at long last my preparations for the invasion are complete."

There was a short silence. "Preparations to invade _where_, Ata?" Silmariën asked quietly.

"Have I raised brainless women?" the king shouted. "Where have you all been the past twenty years? Aman, of course! The Land of the Valar!"

"Valinor!" Lindisse breathed, one could not tell in admiration or disbelief.

"My king is great indeed!" her fiancé echoed, clearly in earnest.

"Oh, Ata, what a good joke!" Elestirnë said with her false joviality. Ar-Pharazôn looked about, satisfied with the reactions he saw on his daughter's faces, clearly not seeing that they were ones of abject horror.

"We will sail in two weeks, when the sea will be calm enough to launch the fleet. I've put Ilnurwe in charge of security until then."

Suddenly realizing what the implications of their disapproval of their father's actions could mean, all the girls save Elestirnë began babbling excitedly, gazing uneasily out of the corners of their eyes at the man in black sitting amidst them. Ilnurwe looked as if he enjoyed his new position of power immensely.


	4. Chapter 3

Elatan's chamber was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from the full moon hanging in the window and the roaring fireplace. Elatan sat comfortably in a chair before the warmth of the fire, while Elendil stood before it, leaning a hand against the mantelpiece.

"I've received word from Ethirion that the reason they had to carry out Anore's rescue early was because information was received to the effect that the Armada is almost ready to be launched," Elatan was saying. "Ilnurwe is carrying out last minute purges of their black list before…" A knock at the door prevented Elatan from continuing. "Enter!" he called. Immediately a courtier appeared through the doorway and bowed respectfully.

"My apologies, my lords, but Princess Telperiën requests Count Elatan's presence up in the Star Chamber," he said.

"Tell her I shall be there shortly," Elatan replied. The courtier bowed again and left, closing the door softly behind him. Elatan returned his attention to his friend.

"I should be going," Elendil said, looking out the window at the rising moon. "I've a long ride. Orodreth will be waiting for me."

"Are you sure you don't want me to let me go instead?" asked Elatan.

"And miss your star-gazing session with Elien?" Elendil asked. Elatan looked up towards the ceiling and nodded thoughtfully.

"Be careful," Elatan begged.

"Aren't I always?" Elendil asked, looking shocked. Elatan just rolled his eyes and headed for the door.

Elatan climbed the stairs of the Astronomer's Tower two at a time, pausing at the threshold of the Star Chamber to straighten his tunic before opening the door. The circular chamber was lit only by the starlight and moonlight pouring in from all directions, causing the four-pointed star inlaid in the marble floor to glow like a living thing. At the far end of the room Telperiën stood alone gazing up through a window at the night sky. Elatan paused where he was.

"Elienya," he murmured looking at her wistfully. Telperiën turned and looked up at him, and he saw tears were streaming down her cheeks in two rivulets. She smiled self-consciously and wiped them away as he came close, his face filled with concern.

"You know, they say if you follow Eärendil you will reach the Undying Lands," she said with a short laugh.

"I've heard that rumor, too," Elatan replied with all seriousness. "But I think it only works for those of Elven kind."

"Well, we'll find out soon, won't we?"

"What are you talking about?"

Telperiën looked up at Elatan, her eyes filled with anguish. "Father is leaving in two weeks for Aman," she told him, turning away in despair as she saw the shock register in his features. "Why are you surprised?" she asked, feeling as though she had to say _something_ but wasn't really sure what. "We all knew this was coming."

"Yes, I know, Elien," Elatan replied, stammering slightly in his confusion. "I just never…"

"Thought it would really happen?" she finished, looking back at him. "For twenty years we've watched my father build up his armies in his insane quest for immortality. Elatan," she added, hopelessness permeating her voice. "How can we escape this?"

She burst into sobs, and Elatan came to her swiftly and enveloped her in his arms, holding her closely. "You know just what will happen when he lands in Aman. What disaster will fall upon us in consequence. All our plans….all our dreams…gone like fading stars."

Elatan pushed her away gently and took hold of her shoulders. "We will find a way to flee the darkness, Elien," he said firmly. "I promise you."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Just trust me."

She looked deeply into his eyes for a long moment, then nodded and buried her face in his shoulder. "Always."

A stream babbled merrily past her feet, the stars blurring in the swift flowing water. A wind stirred her hair and dress and the nearly bare limbs of the trees above her. The moon shown down full and bright, illuminating all the darkened world with a crisp, almost icy glow. But Brînyélë noticed none of this. All she saw, as she sat atop a flat boulder, her knees drawn up to her chest and her shoes cast idly away, was the carved stone before her than bore the name "Yávien". Here her mother was buried, and though she had almost no memories of the woman who had given her life, it was always here that she fled when she felt confused or overwhelmed with despair.

_There's always been darkness in Númenor, mamil, but never has it seemed so close_, she thought, playing idly with a lock of her chestnut hair._ I feel as if I'm standing before The Void. And there are no stars. No moon. No sun. Just darkness. And there's nowhere to run. _

"Why do I feel so alone?" she whispered.

"Because you are alone."

Brînyélë stood up swiftly and whirled to find Ilnurwe standing close to her. Too close, she thought, and she tried to step back from him, but was prevented by the boulder.

"What do you want?" she demanded, a fierceness in her eyes that made her look like a wild, hunted thing.

"You know what I want," Ilnurwe replied, stepping even closer, his eyes glowing with something that was close to malice. "What I've ever wanted."

Brînyélë swiftly eluded his grasp and darted behind her mother's gravestone, using it as a shield against his further advances.

"I'm sure I don't know what you're speaking of," she replied, speaking as though she had just met him by chance in a crowded hall.

"Of course you do," he replied, relentlessly pursuing her with slow, even steps measured to increase her anxiety. "Have you not seen? Have I not made myself plain, Brînyélë?"

By know the two had switched places, and it was Ilnurwe who was behind the stone and Brînyélë who was not. "Stay away from me," she said, backing up a few paces and then turning to run. But she was not quick enough, and Ilnurwe grabbed hold of her wrist. "Let me go!" she cried.

"You can't run forever, Brînya," he growled, jerking her close to him.

"Don't you dare call me that!" she shrieked, smacking him firmly across the face. As he recoiled he loosened his hold on her arm and Brin pried herself loose, but on turning to flee she tripped on a root of the tree and went sprawling forward, hitting her head on the boulder as she fell and losing consciousness. Grinning like some kind of deformed gargoyle, Ilnurwe moved towards her inert figure, but halted abruptly as a voice from behind startled him.

"I wouldn't touch her, were I you."

Ilnurwe turned to see Elendil standing a few paces away, his tall, slender figure outlined against the declining full moon. He laughed. "Are you going to stop me?" he asked, clearly amused. Elendil silently drew his sword and let it hang limply by his side.

"If you take one step closer, I will," he replied quietly.

Ilnurwe sneered. "You wouldn't dare."

"Your precious post as Sauron's right hand cannot protect you from everything," Elendil warned.

"Treason!" the man cried. "I'll have you hanged for this!"

"Do you think I care?" was Elendil's reply. Ilnurwe gave a sniff of disgust and returned his attention to Brînyélë, who still lay unmoving on the hard ground. In less than a second, Elendil was standing between him and her, his sword at Ilnurwë's throat.

"Don't try me," Elendil told him, his eyes locked on Ilnurwë's in a battle of wills.

"You will rue this until the day you die," Ilnurwe muttered, hatred in his eyes. "And that will not be far away."

"So you say."

Elendil shoved his adversary roughly away, and Ilnurwe almost fell to the ground himself, but recovered and ran off down the path. He wasn't even out of earshot before Elendil had sheathed his sword and knelt down at Brînyélë's side. She stirred slightly and tried to push herself up, only to fall back to the earth at finding her arms incapable of bearing her weight.

"Easy, Brin," Elendil murmured.

"What happened?" Her voice was thick and slurred. "I feel so….dizzy."

"Don't worry about what happened, love," Elendil said quickly. "What matters now is what is _going_ to happen."

"What…what's going to happen?" she asked, confused. Without bothering to answer Elendil swept her up in his arms and headed back towards the palace. The soft breeze increased to a gale in an instant and clouds overtook the moon. Lightning flashed across the darkened sky, and thunder boomed across the valley. Brînyélë groaned at the noise and buried her face in Elendil's chest as the skies opened and the rain began pouring down in sheets.

"Hold on, Brînya," he told her, kissing her wet hair softly. "Just hold on."


End file.
